


The Flame No Dampness Dulls

by mirawonderfulstar



Series: After The End Of The World [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anathema is a lesbian and she needs some gay friends, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Drama, M/M, Misunderstandings, so much discussion of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't understand why Crowley's spent the last two months trying to seduce him when the demon hasn't ever shown any interest in sex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by two things: that post sous-le-saule made on tumblr that was like "considering Aziraphale can sense love and Crowley can sense people's desires there's an awful lot of mutual pining in this fandom", and by how much I want to see more aspec Crowley and Aziraphale. 
> 
> I feel like some of this could read as internalized homophobia on Aziraphale's part and while that was not my intent I want anybody reading this to be aware of that anyway, in case it's something you want to avoid.
> 
> Title is from Christina Rossetti's "A Bed Of Forget-Me-Nots" which is also the poem Crowley references later on.
> 
> Frankly I don’t know how this got so long but it’s been very cathartic to write so I figured I’d post it anyway.

It was a dark and stormy night. Or, it was looking like it would turn into one, and Crowley didn’t much fancy spending it alone. Autumn was coming on in earnest now, a relief after the August all of Earth had lived through. In truth, autumn wasn’t Crowley’s favorite season, but Aziraphale always seemed to enjoy it. Crowley suspected the decrease in tourists trying to enter his shop was a large factor in this. That and the necessity of wearing yet heavier and more awful woolly jumpers. Crowley’s lips twitched into a smile thinking about the angel’s choice in clothing. He almost wouldn’t have minded a jumper himself as he headed outside in the chill evening, even if it was in one of the patterns Aziraphale preferred.

With the setting sun rapidly being consumed by heavy grey clouds, Crowley got into the Bentley and drove to Soho. He parked shoddily as always and hurried inside the shop just in time to feel the first drops of rain splash to the ground.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed at him and set the book he’d been reading beside the till. “I was just about to lock up for the evening.”

Crowley stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned against the doorframe, smiling back and stretching his long legs out. “By all means. I’d ask if you want to head out for dinner, but it’s looking like it might be pouring before too much longer.” His smile widened into an easy smirk. “Suppose it’s best we stay in tonight.”

“I believe you’re right.” Aziraphale said as he got up and flipped the small sign in the right-hand window to ‘closed’ and made to lock the door. He nudged Crowley out of the way to do so. “What do you think, then, the bordeaux?”

“Whatever you like, angel.” Crowley responded. He deflated slightly at Aziraphale’s no-nonsense demeanor, but oh well. Wasn’t really a surprise, after the last couple of months. Crowley straightened up and followed Aziraphale into the back room of his bookshop.

 

An hour later they were both seated on the settee under the back room’s narrow window, both buzzing pleasantly with the effects of alcohol, arguing cheerfully about what, precisely, had happened between the king of France and a lady Aziraphale had introduced him to in 1742.

“I’m only saying, angel, that history disagrees with your dates. Jeanne Atoinette Poisson didn’t meet Louis XV until 1745.”

“Since when has history ever gotten any details right?” Aziraphale said with a small sniff. “Which of us was actually _there_ , my dear?”

Crowley poured himself another glass of wine from the coffee table, rolling his eyes fondly behind his sunglasses. “Sure you’re not misremembering?” He said, more to watch Aziraphale’s irritation than because he truly believed it to be the case.

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed a very endearing pink and he took a large drink of his own glass before glaring at Crowley. “My memory is fine and you know that perfectly well.”

Crowley shrugged, still feeling very fond. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

They lapsed into silence for several moments, a silence broken only by the comfortable patter of rain against the window. Aziraphale let his head loll against the back of the settee with a small sigh of contentment, and Crowley watched him shift into a more comfortable position. Drunk Aziraphale moved with a complete lack of self-consciousness that Crowley had always found hopelessly cute. The angel was laid on the back of the settee with his arms crossed under his chin and his eyes closed, almost like he was leaning to watch the rain outside. Crowley set his own glass on the coffee table beside Aziraphale’s and, after a moment’s hesitation, placed his sunglasses there as well, and then moved to join his companion.

“What are you thinking of, dear?” Aziraphale asked him sleepily, opening his eyes for a moment with a slow sweep of long lashes and turning his head towards Crowley. Crowley could feel his desire coming off him in waves, reaching out towards him where Aziraphale refused to do so, and Crowley, though he was beginning to suspect it was fruitless, took the plunge.

“Nothing in particular.” Crowley said. “Just… admiring the view.” He winced and immediately wished he could take the words back, _because what kind of terrible cliched line was that_?

Aziraphale let out a breath that tickled the hair which was starting to fall down across Crowley’s forehead- probably the humidity of the evening. “Don’t.” he said, very softly.

“Don’t what?” Crowley’s brow creased. The air around them had changed. Aziraphale’s desire was coiling back inwards, tucking itself up safely inside him. Crowley bit back a blessing.

 “Don’t start this... this temptation deal up again.” Aziraphale said, no louder, but more sternly. “I’d have thought, after all this time, that you’d know better.”

Some hopeful bubble Crowley had been doing his best to prevent from forming popped at last. He sat up and groped blindly for his glasses, turning away from Aziraphale as he put them back on.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m—I didn’t mean anything by it, I just—”

“How long are we going to keep doing this?” Crowley asked in a flat tone.

“My dear?” Aziraphale had returned to a normal sitting position and was trying to peer into Crowley’s face, an act made significantly more difficult by the fact that Crowley was refusing to look at him and was instead staring down at his hands, clenched into fists.

“Don’t ‘my dear’ me, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about.” Crowley could feel his nails digging sharp moon-shaped cuts into his palms with the effort of keeping himself steady.

“I’m sure I don’t.” Aziraphale’s tone was cool, challenging Crowley to escalate the argument they’d been _not_ having since the world _hadn’t_ ended two months ago.

“You’re sure.” Crowley said under his breath, feeling a horrible combination of anger and heartache and stubborn, ruthless pride coursing through him. He stood up abruptly and, before he was really consciously aware of it, was striding out the back room into the body of the shop.

Aziraphale was following close behind. “Crowley,” he began, making to grab Crowley’s shoulder, but Crowley whirled around and swatted his hand away.

“You know what your problem is, angel?” Crowley said, his voice so low that if Aziraphale had not been so attuned to him he might have missed it. “You refuse to look at what’s right in front of you. You think that if you ignore something uncomfortable, it’ll go away.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Well, I’m going. I’m done dancing around this.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, his eyes wide and pleading. It made Crowley want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, or worse, to press their bodies furiously together and kiss him and kiss him and—

“I know how you feel about me, you don’t have to keep hiding it.” He hissed, his hand on the front door of the shop and his voice full of anger and hurt. “You don’t have to make some excuse, or pretend you think I’m incapable of reciprocating your feelings despite the fact that you can _tell_ —” he took a deep breath, steadying himself, forcing his voice not to shake or his hands to tremble. “All you have to do is say, ‘sorry Crowley, I don’t think this is a good idea and here’s why’. But you don’t want to have to deal with it, so you don’t, and if this were anything else I’d let you go on in denial for the rest of eternity, but I know you, angel, and I know you want me, and I just wish you would  _get on with it already_.” He took in Aziraphale’s shocked face and, for a moment, felt that same hopeful bubble return.

But when he reached out to take the angel’s hand Aziraphale jerked away, and Crowley hated himself for expecting anything different. He turned back to the door and headed out into the rain.

He could hear Aziraphale call after him as he got in the Bentley but he didn’t look back.

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, following him out into the downpour without a second thought. He hurried into the street and looked off in the direction Crowley had gone, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes as he hurried up the dark street. “Crowley, please! Come back!” Aziraphale broke into a run, squinting at the retreating car. He tripped on an uneven bit of pavement and landed on the ground in a sodden heap of wet wool and aching limbs. Crowley was gone, vanished into the night, and Aziraphale stayed where he was for a long, long while, sobs wracking his body and the cold rain chilling him to his ethereal core.

It felt like hours before he got up again. Certainly he felt stiff and sore and slightly ill as he made his way back into the bookshop. He vanished the alcohol from his system and the empty bottle and glasses from the coffee table. Then he sat back down on the settee, put his head in his hands, and tried to think.

Crowley’s explosion had not been entirely a shock to Aziraphale, and that was the part that was making him feel so guilty and horrified at himself. The fact was, he had been vigorously denying to himself that he felt anything other than friendship for Crowley for a very long time. So long that it had become almost a part of who he was. Aziraphale, Principality of Earth, Formerly the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Fool who was Attracted to a Demon. Gigantic Prat.

Aziraphale let out a slightly hysterical laugh. He really was, wasn’t he? Just absolutely an idiot. Crowley had been prodding at him, dropping subtle and then less subtle hints since the morning after the apocalypse, and Aziraphale, instead of saying anything, had pretended he believed the demon was playing some kind of game with him. He’d willfully ignored it, just as Crowley had said, and why? _Why?_

Aziraphale laid back on the settee, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead and pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes so hard that he saw spots. He genuinely didn’t think he knew why he’d pushed Crowley away. It certainly wasn’t because he thought Crowley was incapable of love, whatever Crowley might believe. Aziraphale had been acutely aware of just how much there was to Crowley’s heart for a good century or three before they tried to stop the apocalypse together. Crowley was… Crowley was magnificent. Dazzling. Absolutely, incredibly, awe-inspiringly wonderful. He’d once offered to talk to Heaven on Aziraphale’s behalf because Aziraphale had been too afraid of reporting the consequences of an assignment he’d messed up. It had been ridiculous, because of course Crowley couldn’t have gone to Heaven without facing some righteous smiting, but the demon had argued it would be well within the terms of the Arrangement to advocate for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled slightly at the memory. He couldn’t even remember what he had done wrong, now. Only Crowley insisting, with a flippant expression but an earnest tone, that he’d be happy to talk to Gabriel for him, honest, angel. Aziraphale hadn’t taken him up on the offer, and had never _really_ thought Crowley was serious, but there was that little bit of him that wondered if this was one of those “I’m joking but if you asked I would do it” scenarios. If Crowley had really been offering to go before Heaven for him.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it was just… Heaven. Fear of what they’d do to Aziraphale if they found out he had been lusting after a demon for almost half a millennium. They weren't supposed to be able to, after all. Angels didn't want things, not alcohol, not a really good slice of cake, not a pretty little silver snuffbox, and certainly not sex.

Or maybe it was Crowley himself.

Crowley—glorious, beautiful, wonderful Crowley— loving Aziraphale so much he’d joke about something that would end in his death, for _him_. Crowley, coming to _him_ to stop the apocalypse. Crowley, waiting for Aziraphale to stop being such an arse. _I can't explain it any better than that. Especially not to you._

It was there, in the stomach-churning nausea of guilt and self-pity, that Aziraphale arrived at the truth of the matter. He’d been putting off Crowley’s advances for the last two months because he was afraid, not of Heaven or of Hell, but of himself- or rather, of Crowley's opinion of him. If he admitted to Crowley what the both already knew, that Crowley loved him as fervently as he loved Crowley but didn’t want… didn’t desire him in the way Aziraphale desired…

Aziraphale had been with humans before. Not _often_ , by any means, but enough that he knew what he was doing when he watched Crowley’s long, thin hands move animatedly as he talked, when he admired the hollow of his throat as he threw back his head and laughed. When he felt himself thinking of that tongue, curiously snakelike even after so many years, and how it would feel against his skin.

Aziraphale felt his pulse speed up and shushed it absently. This was exactly the problem. Lust was all well and good—well actually, no, lust was a sin, and one Aziraphale tried his utmost not to indulge in—but this was _Crowley_ , his dearest Crowley, who loved him and trusted him and who had been trying to seduce him for the last two months despite being very obviously not interested in the sex itself. Aziraphale had known him for the life of the world, and he had never, ever shown any indication that he was drawn to that particular earthly pleasure.

 _Get on with it already_ , Crowley had said. The only reason Crowley would indulge in sex, Aziraphale was fairly sure, was because Aziraphale wanted it. And that made Aziraphale feel very, very small, the idea that Crowley might think him capable of _using_ him like that, the way he'd used the occasional human throughout history. 

It wouldn’t do. He’d just have to tell Crowley that yes, he did sometimes think about what it might be like to fuck Crowley into a whimpering, writhing mess but... actually no, that might not be the best way to phrase such a thing. He should tell Crowley that he was harboring lustful thoughts about him, but that he wanted Crowley to be happy more, and he didn’t want his own selfish pleasure to come at the expense of Crowley’s discomfort. That's what he should say. 

Having reached this conclusion, Aziraphale decided the correct course of action was probably to phone Crowley first and let him know he was sorry. Feeling bolstered and almost normal for the first time in several hours, Aziraphale extracted himself from the settee cushions and strode across the kitchenette and picked up the phone, dialing Crowley’s flat. If he wasn’t feeling up to answering yet Aziraphale would leave a message.

Crowley, predictably, didn’t pick up. Aziraphale had always felt rather stupid speaking into a tape, but it was a small penance after how he’d behaved. “Crowley, it’s Aziraphale. I am so terribly sorry for what happened this evening, and you’re, ah, you’re quite right that you deserve more from me. Whenever you’re available, I’d like to see you. I’ll…” here he paused, not really sure of what to say that wouldn’t sound either hopelessly trite or cryptically ominous. “…I’ll do my best to explain myself and hopefully we can reach a state of mutual … satisfaction.” That would have to do, Aziraphale thought, dropping the phone back into the cradle with a grimace at his own ineptitude.

A week later, Crowley hadn’t returned his call or shown up at the bookshop, so Aziraphale left a second message.

“Hi, Crowley. Please call me back when you’re ready. I’ve thought about what you said, and you’re right that I’ve been deluding myself. Let me make it up to you, please. I really am very sorry.”

Aziraphale gave him another three days before calling again.

“Crowley, I’m not sure if you’re still angry at me or if you’re just…” a horrifying possibility struck Aziraphale and he nearly dropped the phone, “you _are_ getting these messages, yes? You’re at home, you’re well? Crowley, if you’re there please call me back just to let me know you’re alright. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I… if something’s happened to you I need to know.”

Aziraphale hadn’t intended to work himself into a state, but when Crowley failed to call even to tell him to go bugger off and stop bothering him, he panicked. Above hadn’t been very specific about the matter of whether Aziraphale was to be punished for his role in the apocalypse, and Crowley had said much the same about Below. It would be just like Hell, Aziraphale thought through a mania that gripped him as he strode around his bookshop, to put off collecting Crowley until he’d let his guard down a bit. He had to be sure. He had to know Crowley was alright.

He turned the corner into the kitchenette and appeared outside the door to Crowley’s top floor flat, and immediately felt as though his heart had stopped.

The door was open a sliver and there were wood splinters sticking out where the lock had been forced. Aziraphale stumbled into the flat with a gasp and looked around.

The shelves of music had been strewn across the floor. Cobwebby cracks radiated out from the shattered center of the television. There was dirt staining Crowley’s pristine white carpet where the plants had been upturned and their roots exposed. There was a long gash through the leather couch that looked like it had been done with a jagged edged knife.

Aziraphale let out a strangled cry as he surveyed the damage. The _plants_ … the plants were beginning to brown and shrivel and Aziraphale had never been as horticulturally inclined as Crowley but he was fairly sure, looking at them, that this attack had not happened recently. Crowley had been gone for a while. Maybe since the night he’d fled the bookshop.

Crowley would never have allowed himself to be taken without a fight. He’d probably returned home in much the same state he’d left Aziraphale’s in, and been ambushed.

And just like that, Aziraphale’s panic left him, replaced with something steely and determined and more than a little dangerous. If Crowley had been captured after leaving the bookshop, then it was partially Aziraphale’s responsibility. His mind flashed back to Crowley’s expression as he’d reached out a hand and Aziraphale had failed to take it, of hurt and resignation and bitterness, and he felt something inside of him shift. Whatever was happening to Crowley now, whatever Hell was doing to him, it was his fault, and he’d be damned himself if he left Crowley there to suffer.

There was only one thing preventing Aziraphale from mounting a rescue, and that was the simple fact that he didn’t know how to find Crowley. It wasn’t explicitly forbidden for him to enter Hell, but neither was it encouraged or necessitated, and so while Aziraphale was more than happy to rush in where angels feared to tread on Crowley’s behalf, he didn’t have the faintest idea where he was rushing.

The most reasonable course of action, Aziraphale decided after pacing Crowley’s wrecked flat for several minutes, was to go back to his shop and consult the books he owned on summoning rituals to see if he could glean any useful information from them. Sifting through dusty old books while Crowley was Below, in all likelihood suffering horribly, was not something Aziraphale relished doing, but he could think of no other alternative.

Six hours, three mugs of hot cocoa, and the entire contents of Aziraphale’s private occult collection later, and Aziraphale had arrived at the grim conclusion that he would in fact be able to get Crowley out of Hell, but that doing so hinged on finding a human willing to help Aziraphale summon him.

The stuff the soul is made out of is fundamentally different from all other material in the universe. This is because the soul is not made, precisely, of material. A soul is a tangled web of connections, feelings and thoughts and experiences and abstractions woven together into a being. A soul is not a thing, but the ongoingness, the narrative that belongs to that thing. To have a soul is to _be_ , in a continuing and active sense.

The souls of angels and demons are not the same as the souls of humans. This is not to say they don’t make connections, have feelings and experiences, don’t view themselves as a story unfurling like a fractal around them. They have their own threads, of a sort, their own webs that bind them to the world, to Heaven, Hell, or to each other, but since all angels and all demons have been around since the Beginning, these webs tend to be much, much larger than human ones. They are also, inevitably, unavoidably, colored by their respective allegiances. The web, the aura surrounding a demon is tinged dark with occult energy, and against the backdrop of Hell, any particular demon gets lost in the muddle. Aziraphale would have liked it if he could have reached down into Hell, sensed Crowley specifically, and pulled him out, but unfortunately such a thing was impossible without some kind of leverage.

He did not explain any of this to Anathema Device when he knocked on her door in the early evening. Before he even had a chance to open his mouth, she had fixed him with a piercing look, pursed her lips, and asked in a sharp voice how long ago Aziraphale had lost him. Then she had pulled him inside by the sleeve of the coat he’d worn on the train to Tadfield and made him sit at her kitchen table while she made a pot of tea.

“So.” She said as she sat down opposite and passed him a large chipped mug full of English Breakfast. “How did it happen?”

“How did what happen, my dear?” Aziraphale said mildly, taking a small sip of his drink.

“You’ve lost him somehow or you wouldn’t be here. The tall one with the cheekbones,” Anathema clarified when Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I never did catch your names but if you think for an instant I could forget a single moment of all that…” she trailed off and wrapped her hands around her own mug, a shiver passing over her face.

Aziraphale considered patting her arm reassuringly and thought better of it. “As a matter of fact, I have lost him. His name is Crowley and I… I may have done something unforgivably stupid.” Aziraphale confessed.

Anathema nodded pensively. “Is he dead? I always assumed your kind couldn’t die but then, I assumed a lot of things that turned out not to be true.” She let out a short laugh, and Aziraphale looked at her in concern.

“No, he isn’t dead but I fear something much worse may have befallen him. Are _you_ quite alright?” He looked around the cottage, or what he could see of it from the kitchen table. It bore the distinct marks of being the home of a single person— clothes in odd places, haphazard stack of dishes in the sink, a lack of variety in the coats that hung by the door. “Didn’t you have a young man with you? At the air base?”

Anathema waved a hand dismissively. “Newt and I broke up. A few days after the whole thing I realized he was always going to want to forget about it, and, well.” She sighed. “There are lots of things a relationship can weather, but willful ignorance isn’t really one of them, you know?”

Aziraphale felt his stomach writhe uncomfortably. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Anathema seemed to sense that she had said the wrong thing, because she took another long drink of her tea and stared at the rack of pots over the sink with an embarrassed sort of look. Aziraphale resisted the urge to pat her reassuringly again.

“So, your Crowley,” she said after a few moments, and Aziraphale felt something in his chest grow warm and fond at her wording, “what’s happened to him?”

“I’m fairly sure he’s been taken down to Hell.” Aziraphale told her. She nodded slowly.

“Can’t you draw up a chalk circle and bring him back?” She asked.

“Ah.” Aziraphale let out a little cough. “Yes. Well. The thing is that Crowley’s a demon.” Anathema looked momentarily taken aback. “I’m an angel. Aziraphale, by the way, since I haven’t bothered to introduce myself properly. The thing is there are certain prerequisites for communication between Earth and Hell, and I don’t have them, I’m afraid.”

“Surely you talk to Heaven, though. I can’t see why it would make much of a difference.”

“You wouldn’t think so, would you, the way both sides behave sometimes.” Aziraphale said with a small snort.

Anathema chuckled back. “From what I’ve seen I’d have to agree.” She cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter in her chair, leaning forward. “Let me make sure I understand, then. You’re here because you want me to summon your demon back from Hell for you.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “That’s the gist of it, yes.”

“And you can’t do this yourself because ‘communication is difficult’?” She crossed her arms with a small smirk.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat and folded his hands in front of him on the table. “There’s an exchange of energy required and unfortunately, being an angel, I can’t… it’s like trying to phone someone using the television, or something.” He said, struck by sudden inspiration. Anathema merely stared at him. He tried again. “I can call Heaven, because Heaven is ethereal and so am I, but if I tried to call Hell I’d probably get a, what do you call it, a busy signal.” Anathema’s expression cleared.

“Whereas I’m neither an angel nor a demon so I should be able to get through.” She said.

“Exactly.” Aziraphale replied eagerly. “You could summon Crowley here and all it would require from you would be a slight energy drain, and as soon as the portal was closed again I could set that right for you.”

Anathema sat back in her chair again, watching Aziraphale through slightly narrowed eyes. “What’s this about an energy drain?”

Aziraphale thought very carefully about how to phrase what he was about to say. Anathema would, essentially, be drawing on her connection to Earth to pull Crowley back up, fighting his own connection to Hell and whatever forces might want to keep him there to do it. It was, in a word, dangerous. But he couldn’t think of anyone else to go to who might be willing to help, and he couldn’t do it himself. He needed this young witch if he was going to rescue Crowley from whatever fate he’d sent him to.

“You can’t get something for nothing, my dear. I can’t summon Crowley but I can give you the strength to do it in my stead.”

Anathema nodded slowly. “Alright. What’s in this for me?” Aziraphale blinked, and Anathema grinned in a sharp-toothed way that had become intimately familiar to Aziraphale over six thousand years of acquaintance with a demon. “Since, you know, you can’t get something for nothing.”

“What would you like?” Aziraphale asked, already knowing that whatever it was, he would provide, because getting Crowley back was of paramount importance.

“I want to know what’s really been going on, all this time. What that was that happened in August. Adam Young made everyone else forget, I don’t know how and he won’t talk to me about it, but I want to _know_.” Her voice was firm and bright and her eyes burned with something just a shade off from anger. “You’re an angel, yeah? So. I do this for you, and you bring me into the loop.”

Aziraphale stared at her, at her hands clutched white-knuckled on her mug of tea, at her shock of pink hair which needed touching up at the roots, at her pale face and tightly clenched jaw. It wasn’t a matter of secrecy, not really, because who would Anathema tell and who would believe her if she did? She was just so horribly familiar, all fierce determination and reckless curiosity. She was so _human_.

“Very well.” Aziraphale said, finishing off his tea. “Help me get Crowley back and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Aziraphale answered questions for what seemed like hours- while Anathema pulled out her own books, while she began throwing herbs and vegetables into a pot on the stove, while she lit incense, while they pushed her living room furniture to one side and drew up a circle in chalk on the floor. Anathema wanted to know everything, back from the Beginning, and Aziraphale told her all he could because really, where was the harm? They’d averted the apocalypse, after all, and it might even be nice to have somebody who understood the breadth of it all, of the past he shared with Crowley.

“This demon,” Anathema said as she crouched by the edge of the circle, “you love him, don’t you?”

Aziraphale stared back at her from where he was sitting on her ratty old couch with his legs curled up underneath him so to avoid stepping in the circle. “I… yes. I do, yes.” It seemed so simple and straightforward, now, to say it like that. Why hadn't he said it like that to Crowley when he'd come around to the bookshop? Why had he gotten so caught up in the question of desire?

Anathema nodded, her jaw set. “You said this is going be an energy drain on me? I’m sure it won’t be pleasant for him either. Be ready to catch him.” And, looking as though she were moving before she could change her mind, she lit a match and threw it into the circle.

There was a sound like wind rushing, and the space inside the circle shone with flames. Anathema was chanting something but between the wind and the form that was beginning to materialize in the air above the circle Aziraphale didn’t catch what it was. Crowley was fading into the space before his eyes, swirling and coalescing like mist, his body curled in on itself and his hands over his head as though warding off a blow. He looked to be in pain.

“Aziraphale!” Anathema shouted suddenly, and Aziraphale’s eyes jerked away from the sight before him to focus on the girl. She was gasping for breath, kneeling on the edge of the circle, and when he met her eyes she narrowed them and shouted again, “Grab him but _don’t step in the fire_!” The circle seemed to shudder, to flicker. “I don’t know how long I can keep this open!”

Aziraphale perched on the edge of the couch cushion, stretched out a hand over the flames, felt his fingers brush the satiny material of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley gave no sign of noticing he was there.

With an almighty tug Aziraphale pulled Crowley by the wrist, and he came tumbling out of the pillar of light emanating upwards from the floor and landed sprawled atop Azirapahale on the couch. Beside them, the light went out suddenly as Anathema slumped forward onto the floor. Aziraphale hardly noticed. Crowley’s cheek was pressed into his chest and his eyes were closed, but he seemed to be stirring.

“’ziraphff?” he said groggily, turning his head upwards.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale cried, and his arms came up to wrap around the demon’s thin frame. Crowley didn’t react to the touch except to nestle his head more firmly against Aziraphale’s chest, turning to look across the room.

“Wha’ ‘app’n to _her_?” Crowley said, and Aziraphale remembered Anathema.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale sighed, hurriedly sitting up and rearranging Crowley on the couch so he could scramble across the room and examine Anathema.

She was breathing, and her pulse was normal. Aziraphale gave her aura a once-over as he poked and prodded at her. She seemed to be alright, merely unconscious. He revived her and helped her sit up with a hand on the small of her back.

Anathema groaned, placed a hand on her head with a wince, and looked around the room. Her mouth quirked up into a satisfied smile at seeing Crowley sitting on the couch, then she grimaced at the shape burned into her hardwood floor.

“Seems I was right about needing that soup.” She muttered. “Help me get up.” She instructed Aziraphale, and he pulled her to her feet. She tottered unsteadily back into the kitchen, and emerged a moment later with two oversized mugs with spoons sticking out. She thrust one at Aziraphale and gestured vaguely at Crowley before collapsing into the armchair they’d pushed against the wall earlier and starting to spoon soup into her mouth.

“ _Thank you_.” Aziraphale said earnestly, looking down at her. She waved a hand in a vague gesture of acknowledgement.

“I’m going to eat my soup, and then I’m going to go to bed. You’re welcome to the guest room if you want it, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to be moving him very far just yet.” Anathema said. She sounded utterly exhausted. “We can talk tomorrow, if you’re both still here in the morning."

Aziraphale nodded and hurried back to the couch. Crowley hadn’t moved from the position Aziraphale had left him in, and was staring blankly ahead with his golden eyes unfocused. Aziraphale set down the other mug of soup on the end table and took a seat beside him.

“Are you alright, my dear?” He asked in a soft murmur, peering into Crowley’s face. Crowley turned to look at him with the same blank expression.

“Aziraphale.” He said in a low tone, one of his shaking hands coming up to stroke along Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale caught Crowley's hand in his own and pressed a kiss to his palm. Crowley let out a hiss of surprise but didn’t pull away.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighed. “I am so very, very glad to see you.”

Crowley only stared.

“Have some soup.” Anathema’s voice cut in, and Crowley turned to stare at her for a moment instead. His eyes narrowed in recognition and he drew his hand out of Aziraphale’s grasp, settling both hands in his lap where they shook uncontrollably.

“I know you.” He looked back at Aziraphale, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s Anathema Device. She was one of the humans there on the day of the apocalypse. She helped me summon you.” Aziraphale said. “And she’s had the forethought to make soup so you might as well eat some, you’ve both just been through an ordeal.” Aziraphale reached past Crowley and picked the soup mug back up before offering holding it out. Crowley just looked at it.

“I…” he began, then faded off again. Aziraphale waited several moments to see if he would resume.

When it became apparent he wouldn’t, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Would you, ah. Would you like some help?”

Crowley looked up, met Aziraphale’s eyes, and blinked, just once. Then he nodded. Aziraphale scooted closer and began to feed the demon spoonfuls of vegetable soup. Somewhere in the midst of it he heard Anathema get up and head for bed, but he never took his eyes off Crowley’s face.

When he set the empty mug back on the end table, Crowley wordlessly moved closer to Aziraphale, leaned his weight on the angel’s shoulder, and closed his eyes.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale began hesitantly as his arms came up to surround him. “Ah… if you want to sleep, you might be happier in a bed. Anathema offered you her guest room.”

“Nuh.” Crowley sighed into the wool of Aziraphale’s jumper. “I want… _you_. To stay with you.”

Aziraphale’s heart did a little flip at that, but he shushed it into quietness. Crowley had been going through a string of unknown traumas for the last two weeks and would of course want closeness and physical comfort right now.

“You really will sleep much better lying down, my dear. If it matters so much, I’ll sleep with you.” He realized he was stroking the back of Crowley’s head, feeling the silky black hair between his fingers, and dropped his hand down to Crowley’s waist.

Crowley snuggled even closer, breathing deeply. He seemed to be dead to the world already. Little though Aziraphale wanted to disturb him, he wanted to be pinned under his dearest friend while he slept through to morning even less, so with a small grunt of effort, Aziraphale tucked an arm under Crowley’s knees and hoisted him up off the couch.

It was frighteningly easy to carry him. Surely he hadn’t always been this light. Had he lost enough weight in two weeks for Aziraphale to notice or was it merely that Aziraphale had never held him like this before? Aziraphale mulled it over as he backed into the guest room and deposited Crowley on the bed. He would have left the room again after pulling the blankets up around him, but Crowley grabbed a fistful of his jumper with a strength that surprised Aziraphale, given his condition.

“Stay.” He said, his eyes still closed and his face pressed into the pillow but the word coming out perfectly clear. Aziraphale hesitated. Then he tugged the jumper off and toed off his shoes before clambering into the double bed beside Crowley, who immediately moved closer and laid his head on Aziraphale’s chest.

“Crowley—" Aziraphale began, feeling suddenly like he needed to apologize.

“Thought I’d never see you again.” Crowley cut him off before he could get started. “I was… so scared, angel.”

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale whispered, guilt and self-loathing flooding him all over again. “I should have realized sooner.”

Crowley let out a little breathy sigh and his shaking hand clenched and unclenched on Aziraphale’s shirt. He smelled like brimstone, Aziraphale realized suddenly. Brimstone and blood.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale sighed, squeezing Crowley to him as tightly as he could, as though holding him now could make up for all his failures to do so in the past couple months.

Aziraphale stayed awake through the long night, Crowley curled protectively against him.


	2. Chapter 2

When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the curtains of Anathema’s guest room, Aziraphale shifted Crowley’s weight off of him and pulled the remaining blankets up around his shoulders. He brushed Crowley’s hair back from his forehead and pressed a kiss there before leaving the room, making sure to close the door silently.

Anathema was already in the kitchen, wrapped in an old crocheted blanket and drinking a mug of tea as she leaned against the counter. She looked surprised to see him.

“Is he awake?” she asked softly.

“No, I let him sleep. Would it be a terrible imposition if I—”

“You’re both welcome to stay as long as you need. I hate living alone, if I’m being honest.” Anathema said, taking another drink from her mug.

“Ah.” Aziraphale said, feeling mightily awkward. “Would you mind if I used your kitchen? I want to make him breakfast.” 

Anathema gave him a complicated look. She set her mug down and pulled her blanket more firmly around her shoulders. “What did you do to him?” she asked, in the same quiet, confident tone.

Aziraphale stared at her. “What do you mean, my dear?”

“I mean, why do you feel so guilty? If it was just that you didn’t manage to prevent him being captured by the other demons, you’d be in there with him right now.” She looked at him pensively. “You think you’ve done something unforgivable. What is it?”

Aziraphale turned away, staring out the window across the field of grass behind Jasmine Cottage. He wasn’t sure how to go about explaining to this young woman that his crime where Crowley was concerned was cowardice, because Anathema, he had learned in a hundred small ways over the last twelve hours, was an incredibly brave person. And perhaps, he thought with some surprise, a person whose opinion he valued.

"He's loved me for a very long time, and I... I don't know what I'm supposed to do. After the apocalypse, it felt like we were given a second chance." Aziraphale found himself saying, still staring out the window. Somewhere out there was the air base. Somewhere there was an angel reaching for a demon, holding out a hand in the face of impending doom. And maybe somewhere there was a version of him that hadn’t tried to distance himself after when Crowley had started flirting more openly, who hadn't taken the bookshop and the Bentley righting themselves as a safe return to the status quo. An Aziraphale who had asked, who had questioned the way Crowley had questioned for the pair of them down through history, who had worked up the courage to do some introspection about why, exactly, Crowley's flirting bothered him so much _before_ something terrible had happened because of it. "I didn't take it, and now I fear it might be too late. Whatever he's been through in the last two weeks, it's partially my fault for continuing to push him away."

Anathema made an affirming sound. “Yeah, it sounds like you've made a mess of things.” Aziraphale winced. “But you didn’t lose him, and you have another chance.” There was the clink of her setting her mug in the sink. “You get started on that breakfast, yeah? I’m going to put the furniture in the living room back.” And she swept out of the room.

Aziraphale was in the middle of frying bacon when he heard Crowley scream. He ran out of the kitchen, threw himself into the guest room, and found Crowley, curled in a ball under the blankets, shaking and moaning.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sat down on the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. Crowley jerked awake with a gasp and stared up at Aziraphale.

“Angel.” He whispered, pulling Aziraphale down beside him. “ _Angel,_ thank someone.”

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, allowing himself to be rearranged into a more comfortable position for lying on. Crowley shrugged as he settled against him.

“Nightmare.” Crowley grunted in response.

Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley’s head. “You’re safe now.”

Crowley nodded, letting out a little sigh. His breath was warm on Aziraphale’s neck. It was… nice. Just... nice. There was none of that terrible urgency Aziraphale sometimes felt when Crowley touched him, and Aziraphale was profoundly grateful. They lay like that a moment longer, Crowley’s weight on him a soothing presence, before he smelled something burning.

Aziraphale remembered too late that he’d been cooking breakfast and swore under his breath as he nudged Crowley awake again. Crowley followed him sleepily out of the bedroom.

The bacon was completely unsalvageable but thankfully Anathema’s frying pan was not. Aziraphale apologized profusely to her, and she just laughed at him, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ve got more important things to think about, I think.” She said cheerily, glancing across the counter at where Crowley was standing watching the scene in the kitchen with the beginnings of a smile.

“You’d better take care of him.” Anathema muttered to Aziraphale later after they’d all eaten the eggs and sausage Aziraphale hadn’t burned and Crowley had gone back to sleep for a while. “He’s not okay right now but he’ll get better, and you’d better make sure he does.”

Aziraphale set the stack of plates he’d been carrying down in the sink and turned to look at her. “He doesn’t need taking care of, not really.” He sighed and stared down at his hands. “He never has. Most people don’t, you know.”

“Most people want to feel self-sufficient. Doesn’t mean they don’t benefit from having someone around who looks out for them.” She said with a sigh, starting to load the dishes into the dishwasher. Her eyes were rather wet.

“Anathema.” Aziraphale began, hesitating. “I am… Crowley would be the first to tell you I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. But I feel I must ask. What happened between you and your young man?”

“Newt?” She shrugged. “I told you. Willful ignorance.”

“Willful ignorance alone doesn’t ruin a relationship.” Aziraphale said quietly, passing Anathema a mug from further down the counter. “I would never have made it this far if Crowley weren’t willing to overlook…” something clicked into place, some feeling Aziraphale had been noticing in Anathema for the last day. Love. “You’re waiting for him to come back.”

“Maybe I am.” Anathema said coolly. “He won’t, though.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale began, suddenly rather angry on Anathema’s behalf, “you are a remarkable young woman. I have no doubt that wherever he is now, he is missing you desperately. If you never see him again, it is _his_ loss, not yours.”

Anathema gave him a crooked smile as she started the dishwasher. “You’re a sweetheart, you know that?”

Aziraphale grimaced and looked down the hall at the closed door of the guest room where Crowley was sleeping. “I don’t know if I’d use that word, myself.”

“You are.” Anathema assured him. “You’re very lucky to have each other.”

 

It was several days before Crowley felt really and truly conscious. He woke up one day to late afternoon light creeping across the wall of the bedroom he was in—not his. One of Aziraphale’s jumpers was folded neatly on the vanity stool. It was very quiet, apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall and the low hum of something using electricity in the other room.

Crowley sat up with a stretch and rubbed at his eyes. His memories from the immediate past were rather vague. Aziraphale had been unusually tactile with him, he remembered that. And he’d made him breakfast. Summoned him from Hell with the help of that pink haired girl who’d been at the air base during the summer.

Crowley shivered. Regardless of the occasion or what was done to him Down There, his least favorite thing about the whole ordeal was always that it took days for him to get warm again. The physical torture he’d begun to heal from as soon as he was back on Earth. The nightmares would fade off in another week or so. But Crowley doubted he’d stop feeling cold and shaky for at least six weeks, a month if he was lucky. And they were coming up on winter, too, so realistically he wouldn’t be warm again until the spring. Blessed snake physiology.

At least it felt warmer here than it would have in London, at his flat. Might even be able to stretch out in the sun, provided there was enough of a garden. He got up to peer out the window.

“Ah my dear, I’m glad to see you’re awake.” Aziraphale voice said in a brisk tone, and Crowley whirled around, startled. He hadn’t even heard the angel come in.

Aziraphale gave him a satisfied little smile. “I thought I’d have to wake you for supper but you’re up already.”

“Supper?” Crowley repeated, his voice rather hoarse from lack of use. “We’re having—isn’t this that girl’s house?”

“Anathema’s, yes. We’ve been swapping off cooking while you recover.” Aziraphale said, leaning down and fluffing the pillows on the bed.

“You have?” Crowley raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale might have chosen to _look_ like a comfortable middle-aged bookseller but he hadn’t really the knack for _being_ one, or at least that had been what Crowley had always thought. He wasn't _domestic_.

“Yes, we have. She’s had a rough few months, poor girl. I think she’s glad of the company.” Aziraphale was now making the bed.

“Ah.” Crowley said blankly, unsure how to put words to what he was feeling. “Angel—”

Aziraphale finished tucking the comforter into place with a last little pat and pulled Crowley into a tight embrace. Crowley stiffened for a moment and then relaxed into the hug, his arms coming up to hold wrap around Aziraphale. He showed no signs of letting go and after a moment laid his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He whispered, and Crowley gave him a small squeeze before pulling away to look at him. Aziraphale determinedly avoided his eyes.

“Right. Food. Let’s have something to eat and then we can talk about going home.” Aziraphale said, trying to wipe his eyes surreptitiously and failing.

“Angel, are you crying?” Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale cry in something like two hundred years. He wasn’t big on crying, Crowley’s angel.

“Food, Crowley.” Aziraphale said with enough force that Crowley dropped the matter.

The train back to London would stop running too early for them to head back, and while Crowley briefly toyed with the idea of flying, Anathema shot that down by pointing out that it was expected to get very cold in the evening. They would stay at Jasmine Cottage for one more night, although if Crowley was reading Anathema correctly she’d have been perfectly content to have them stay indefinitely. Aziraphale was more muddled. Crowley kept an eye on him through supper, trying to work out what it was he wanted that he felt so conflicted about.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, when it came. Anathema and Aziraphale were in Anathema’s living room, Anathema sprawled over the arm of a chair and Aziraphale curled up on the couch, both babbling loudly and excitedly about the spiritualism craze of the 19th century. Crowley felt a great swell of fondness for the angel as he sat down next to him, and Aziraphale turned to him and positively beamed.

Oh. _Oh._ That’s what he wanted. Crowley felt something inside him go molten with pleasure under Aziraphale’s gaze, and he blinked before giving the angel a positively wicked grin. Aziraphale blushed faintly and turned away, resuming his conversation with Anathema. He’d tamped his desire down firmly again, and when Crowley moved closer and let his breath tickle the back of Aziraphale’s neck he shifted away.

Crowley shrugged, got back up and, taking a coat that was suddenly large enough to accommodate his height from the rack by the door, headed out into the garden.

He didn’t go far. It was a nice night, clear and cool, with that faintly dangerous edge the air always seemed to pick up this time of year. The humans had developed tradition and celebration and later turned it into a day to send their young out to dress up and collect sweets, but Earth remembered, and so did Crowley, why the late fall was such a gloomy time.

The long dark was coming. Plants would wither and die, water would freeze over, the ground would be covered in frost and faint flurries of snow. England would be buried under a blanket of cold and silence and the days would shorten until sunlight was a rare and wonderful sight. The world always seemed to stop in the winter, and this winter, the first winter after the world _hadn’t_ , was looming.

Crowley wrapped the coat more tightly around himself and sat down in Anathema’s garden, under a large ash tree. The leaves crunched beneath him and the stars twinkled above, far away. The lights from Jasmine Cottage seemed equally far, somehow, just a few steps through the garden.

Someone was coming out the door.

Crowley straightened up, expecting Aziraphale, but it was Anathema. She plopped herself down next to him and leaned back against the bark of the tree.

“So.” She said, making the word into two syllables and popping the second against her lips. “You’re a demon.”

“Yes?” Crowley responded, confused.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that we haven’t had the opportunity to talk. I feel like I know you pretty well after spending the last several days around Aziraphale, but I figured I should see what you were like for myself before you left.” She wasn’t looking at him, was staring up at the sky instead. Crowley had no idea how to respond to that.

“Alright.” Is what he said. And then, “What impression has Aziraphale given you about me?”

Anathema shrugged lazily, still looking at the stars. “That you’re very invested in humanity. That you were the one who wanted to stop the apocalypse. That you’re stronger than you look, emotionally speaking.”

Crowley felt momentarily offended by that, then conceded it was probably true. Still, he didn’t really like the idea of the angel talking about him in such a way with someone, even someone with the kind of receptivity he was sensing from Anathema.

“It wasn’t anything he said.” Anathema told him, turning to look at him at last. “He just… he really loves you, you know.” The admission seemed to make her sad, somehow.

“Why does that bother you?” Crowley asked.

Anathema let out a little sigh. “It’s just… it’s sort of tragic and poetic, isn’t it? An angel and a demon in love.”

“Poetic.” Crowley repeated.

“I guess I just wish someone was as careful with me as he is with you.” Anathema mused, turning back to the sky.

Crowley blinked. “What?”

“He’s very sweet about you. He was a mess when he turned up here and a mess for the first few days after we got you out of Hell. He told me the other day he felt like he’d been given a second chance with you when the world didn’t end and then failed to take it.” She let out a little chuckle, wrapping her arms around herself. “I told him before but I'll tell you again now: you're very lucky to have each other." 

"Because _you_ don't have someone?" Crowley asked shrewdly. He thought he could see the shape of her unhappiness, now. A dark-haired boy with glasses and a perpetually lost look. 

Anathema winced in the dark. "I thought I did but..." she sighed. "I don't think he's going to come back." She was silent for a few moments. "He shouldn't come back, truth be told." 

"Why not? You seem like a nice enough young woman. Aziraphale certainly seems to like you, at any rate." 

"And Aziraphale doesn't like many people, is that it?" Anathema had that same fondly knowing tone she'd used earlier, and Crowley's mouth twitched into a smile. 

"Well... yes." Crowley responded. It was curious, sitting and talking with someone who seemed to know what you would say before you said it. Crowley had always been both a little uncomfortable and a little fascinated by witches. 

Anathema sighed again. "I do love him." she said. "Newt, I mean. I do love him. But..." Crowley watched her face go through several different, equally unhappy expressions before she shrugged. "We were supposed to have sex. The book said we would. And he certainly seemed to like it, and I like him, but..."

"You don't want to have any more sex with him." Crowley supplied. Anathema nodded. She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, looking very small all of a sudden. Crowley, acting on an impulse, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and let her lean into his chest. She let out a shaky breath. 

"I know I should move on, because obviously not having sex was a dealbreaker for him, but we didn't actually talk about it. I just... threw him out over an argument we were having about whatever really happened in August, and I told him not to come back." 

Crowley could feel her tears seeping into his shirt and stuck his hand into the pocket of the coat to pull out some tissues that had certainly not been there before. She blew her nose. 

"Sorry," she muttered. "Shouldn't be crying all over a perfect stranger." 

"We're not strangers." Crowley told her, patting her on the back. "I think letting me and Aziraphale stay in your guest room for the last week entitles you to a little sympathy." _Entitles her to more than that_ , part of Crowley thought darkly. He wondered if he could track down this Newt and perhaps make all his credit cards stop working or his car break down. 

"It's not his fault, not really." Anathema said. "I'm just... I'm so confused. I've known that I was going to have sex for the first time with Newt since I was old enough to read and understand the book. It never occurred to me that I might not be interested in sex, you know?" 

"Maybe you're just not interested in sex with _him_." Crowley pointed out. "Humans have preferences when it comes to sex, or so I've heard." 

Anathema let out a watery chuckle. "And what about angels and demons?" 

For a single terrifying second Crowley thought she was coming onto him, and then he realized she was talking about him and Aziraphale.

"Ah." He said.

"The thing about angels and demons is that... hm." he said. 

Anathema laughed and blew her nose, sitting up and giving Crowley an arch look. 

"The thing is," he began again, "we don't necessarily need or want sex. But then, we don't necessarily need or want food either, or wine, or sleep." He bit his bottom lip, thinking. "I've never really... it's not an aspect of physicality that interests me, particularly." Crowley swallowed. "But Aziraphale..." 

"Aziraphale doesn't want to have sex?" Anathema asked. 

"No." Crowley shook his head. "Aziraphale wants to have sex very badly but he thinks... he's incredibly dense sometimes. Comes with the job description, I suppose." He sighed, suddenly wishing Anathema would resume leaning on him. She did. 

"He thinks angels shouldn't want to have sex?" Anathema asked. 

"That's the gist of it, yes." Crowley said with a grimace up at the sky.  _Poetic,_ he thought again. _Love steadfast as a fixed star, more large than time, more strong than death…_ Aziraphale loved him, Crowley knew, and he loved Aziraphale, and that was part of the problem. For Aziraphale, 'love' had always included a side of condescension. The angel thought he knew what was best for them both, without bothering to ask for Crowley's input, and that was why they were currently at an impasse over the question of sex.

"Talk to him, then." Anathema said, nudging him with her elbow. "You've known each other for all of time, you should be able to talk about a simple matter of carnal pleasure." 

Crowley snorted at the humor in her voice. "What, like you and Newt did?" 

Anathema was silent for a long time. Then she said, very quietly, "Newt and I were never going to work out. We didn't even really like each other, when you came down to it." 

"Why do you miss him so much, then?" Crowley asked her with a raised eyebrow. 

Anathema looked back up at the sky for a while, gathering her thoughts. "He made me feel normal. More human." She said slowly. "I felt like I could be... _something_ with him, you know?" 

"No," Crowley lied, squeezing her hand. "But it's alright. You can be something else now. Ever consider the possibility you might be gay?" 

Anathema chuckled. "It's something I've been thinking about the last few days, yes." She stood up, rubbing her arms with her hands. "I'm going inside, it's getting cold and you're not a particularly good heater, for a demon." She squinted down at him curiously in the dark. 

"Yeah, well," Crowley said with a slow smile, standing up as well, "cold-blooded." 

 

Crowley was getting into bed when Aziraphale came into the room wrapped in a robe, toweling his curly hair dry. "Are my glasses in here?" He asked Crowley, squinting down at him. Crowley rolled his eyes. 

"You don't need glasses, angel." 

"Nor do you." Aziraphale pointed out, gesturing to Crowley's shades on the bedside table. 

Crowley pointed to the vanity where Aziraphale had put his glasses down before going to take advantage of Anathema's very spacious, very nice bathtub. Aziraphale beamed and put them on, then turned back to Crowley with a soft, fond expression. 

Crowley froze in the process of pulling blankets snugly around himself and looked at Aziraphale with some apprehension. "We should talk, angel." He said, patting the empty space beside him in the bed. Aziraphale nodded but didn't move. His expression had gone tense and worried. " _Aziraphale_." Crowley sighed. "Sit down." 

Aziraphale sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, and Crowley turned towards him determinedly.

“So.” Crowley said, taking a breath.

“So.” Aziraphale echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry for the things I said at the bookshop.” Crowley said at the same time Aziraphale said “Why have you been trying to seduce me since August?”

They stared at each other.

“You should go first, I think.” Aziraphale said, flushing slightly.

Crowley shook his head, his eyes wide. “Absolutely not. You think I’ve been trying to _seduce_ you?”

“Haven’t you?” Aziraphale asked, twisting his hands together in his lap.

“Well… yes, I suppose so.” Crowley admitted. “I don’t think I’d word it quite like that but—”

“What would you call it, then?” Aziraphale bristled slightly. “Because I sort of thought—the posturing, Crowley! And the innuendo! And the… well, the way you’re always dropping in like you don’t have anything better to do than stand around and bother me—”

“I don’t.” Crowley cut in. “I’m sorry if it hurt you but I thought you… well. I never got the impression you wanted me to stop.”

Aziraphale patted Crowkey’s shoulder reassuringly. “Oh, it didn’t hurt me, my dear, it’s just…” he let out a frustrated breath. “It just confuses me, that’s all. If you were interested in all that you might have done something about it before now. We’ve known each other for years and years and I’ve never seen you express any sexual interest in humans.”

Crowley snorted. “And you think this means I couldn’t have any interest in you?”

Aziraphale stared at him. He shook his head minutely and Crowley felt a swell of fondness for his friend.

“Angel,” Crowley said, completely exasperated, “I don’t want to get drunk or have years long arguments about morality or go to St James with humans, either. I just want _you_.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said. His expression had cleared and there was a pleasant pink coloring his cheeks. “That’s ah. That’s alright then.”

“Are you sure? Because you seemed very distressed about this, Aziraphale. I’d hate to think that after everything we’ve been through you would think you need to lie to protect me.” Crowley said, very seriously. Aziraphale inclined his head.

“I was worried you wanted to sleep together out of some… misguided need to please me.” Aziraphale blushed darker and looked down at his hands, still twisting in his lap.

“What, like, offering my body to you?” Crowley grinned. “That’s a little bit hot, angel, but no.”

“Why now, then?” Aziraphale said urgently, looking back up at him. “Surely you’ve known for years that I…”

“I have, yeah. Since the middle of the seventeenth century. It just… never seemed like the right time. Always the threat of apocalypse on the horizon.” He took one of Aziraphale’s hands, in part to keep the angel from picking at his nails any more than he already had (he’d be furious with himself in a few hours when he realized he’d ruined his manicure) but mostly just to touch him. “Now we have all the time we could want. Might as well, I figured.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with being afraid I’ll get sick of you now we’re both free to do what we want?”

“ _Should_ I be worried you’ll get sick of me?” Crowley asked, teasingly, but with a pang in his chest all the same.

Aziraphale turned towards Crowley and looked at him fervently, almost reverently. For a moment Crowley was reminded that his soft, bookish angel had once held a flaming sword and had been responsible for more than one human tragedy, back near the dawn of time. Then his hands came up to cup Crowley’s face, and the feeling in his chest began to sing. “No,” Aziraphale murmured, “You shouldn’t.” 

“Good.” Crowley replied. “And Aziraphale?” The words came out breathless, and Crowley couldn't bring himself to mind.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Aziraphale kissed him, warm and gentle. "I love you, too, my dear. Come hell, high water, the end of the world, the beginning of the next... I love you." 

“Glad we got that settled.” He kissed Aziraphale again, quickly, before rearranging himself in bed. "If you don't mind, I think I'll resume trying to seduce you once we get back to London. I don't much like the idea of fucking in Anathema's guest room." Crowley said with a wink which made Aziraphale blush. 

“Are you going to sleep?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah, I think so.” He tilted his head up to look at Aziraphale, who hadn't moved from his upright position. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, I’m sure you’ve had enough of lying in bed doing nothing these last few days.”

Aziraphale’s smile made Crowley’s chest clench again, in a very pleasant way. "Don't be ridiculous, of course I'll stay." He reached out a hand and stroked his fingers through Crowley's hair, and Crowley, letting out a shivery sigh, closed his eyes and slept. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic in its current state is absolutely a "I got tired of looking at this so I posted it" sort of thing, I have lost all perspective on whether this may be good or not, please leave me a comment and tell me what you thought I need the reassurance.


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